Page 11 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

While the pancakes sizzle on the grill—they’re not flapjacks—I scowl at the newcomer through the food delivery window.

Him, Hotcakes?Non, non, non. My buns-n-biscuits.

That reminds me, I need to make a new batch for tomorrow. But right now, I crack some eggs for the crème brûlée. I’m not a professional chef, novice home cook, or trained to make fancy desserts. However, I have a knack—some might say a taste—for preparing foods that are a degree better than edible.

But that’s the only degree I have.

Barely escaping high school, the one thing I’m truly good at was a dream I had to let go of because of other people’s poor decisions. Mr. Monster Truck out there with his firm muscles pressing against the hem of his T-shirt, and his arrogant smolder only drives home that point.

I wanted the parking spot closest to the Laughing Gator because I was late after racing back to Lexi and JQ’s new house after forgetting to leave them with Leonie’s diaper bag.

From the dining room, a cell phone rings, and then a deep voice says, “Maddo.”

Not able to ignore the conversation and using context clues, it shouldn’t surprise me that this guy answers his phone by saying his name. Who does that except for the cockiest of guys in movies? Maddo, the monster truck driver, that’s who.

Technically, the Ford isn’t a monster truck, but he was driving like he was at a rally. Must’ve been really hankering for caffeine and breakfast.

I want to let these pancakes cook until they turn into hubcaps and then toss them at Maddo’s head like a series of frisbees, but I take a deep breath, roll my shoulders back, and lift my chin. I’ve dealt with worse, especially back in my racing days and more recently during the annual Hogwash Hunt.

Once a year, people descend on our town, thinking they have front-row rights, and then leave it in ruins. But I remind myself that their presence provides a little financial boost so I can scrape through the other eleven months.

I peer through the food delivery window. Molly and Roxanne speak in a hush, likely gossiping about our newcomer.

Maddo has a full head of brown hair, a fashionable amount of stubble, and blue eyes that are dark in the center with a lighter blue ring around the iris, reminding me of the circle on a peacock’s feather. He smirks as if he caught me staring.

As if I’d waste my time.

Sizing him up is more like. If he wants to go head-to-head, all I need to do is give the Porsche an oil change and I’ll leave him in the dust.

I’ve tried to get rid of the Spyder. No one will buy it from me—not that there’s much of a market for sports cars in Hogwash. But even going farther afield, I’ve been refused at dealerships and private sales across the state. I’m marked with an X because a lot of big money was bet on me to go to nationals. I ended up having to use my regional winnings and entry fees to bail my mother out, which resulted in me being swamped with the Laughing Gator Grille, meaning they lost big. As if that weren’t bad enough of a punishment, I’m forced to drive the thing. If you have a lead foot like mine, it’s all too tempting to kick it past forty miles per hour, but I can’t afford a speeding ticket.

Molly’s head of red hair fills the food delivery window, interfering with my view. “That was some meet cute.”

“More like meet rude,” I mutter.

“But he’s cute.”

“Rude,” I repeat as if we’re arguing over crème brûlée pronunciation again.

The Laughing Gator Grille isn’t a large establishment and by the way that the corners of Maddo’s lips twitch from behind his coffee mug, he hears every word of our exchange.

After a beat, he calls, “I didn’t see a sign that saidPorsche Parking Only.”

“Hmm. Could be that you need glasses.”

He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Or it could be that I like what I see.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve been in this business long enough not to trust a flirt.

“There was no rush for you to get back. I was holding down the fort,” Molly says proudly, suggestively, as if Maddo and I were merely playing Monopoly with the parking spaces on Main.

I know his type. He thinks he’s a gift to women across the world—cities and small towns, rich and poor alike. A real charmer with that arrogant smolder that gives him a license to flirt.

The smell of scorching cream reaches my nose. I dash back to the pot on the stove where I’d started the crème brûlée and scrap it, then begin again.

Thankfully, the little bubbles in the pancakes were slow to form because the grill wasn’t yet at full temperature, buying me time. Take two: they’re cooked to perfection as usual.

Pride keeps me from serving my sole customer—aside from Mr. Soto—cold pancakes. I all but bring them out with bells—that would include a dusting of powdered sugar, a perfect pat of butter, and a side of fresh mulberries. “Here are yourpancakes. Can I get you anything else?”

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